


Litany

by Sanguinity (DirectorShellhead)



Category: Vampire Chronicles: Anne Rice
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DirectorShellhead/pseuds/Sanguinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestat gets some longstanding frustrations off his chest, mostly by flinging them in Louis' general direction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Litany

**Author's Note:**

> All the spoilers. All of them, seriously--but only vaguely.

So you want it straight from the horse’s mouth, do you, my beloveds? You suspect I'll implicate myself in something unforgivable, perhaps. Or maybe it's just a bit of tawdry soap-opera drama you're after, and baby, I can bring that to the stage with swagger and a bang. What frustrates me most about him, what sends me into a comic rage, what finally silences me altogether with anger too white-hot for words? Nothing less than this, nothing more than what you likely suspect but cannot possibly understand; a whole history of frustrations.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Your hopelessly Puritanical sense of propriety in matters public, or for public knowledge, frustrates me. Get over it, and over yourself.

Your temperance and decency frustrate me. Be furiously indecent, violently intemperate, with me. Challenge me with all the passionately selfish depravity you can muster, as I know full well you can do. You know full well how thoroughly I relish the crackling roar of conflict, and better still, the shuddering sigh of denouement. You know it because you savor it too.

Your repose frustrates me when I wish for impulse or action, and to be not always and forever the one engendering it. Your repose is, perhaps, my saving grace. And so too it frustrates me, when I would not be saved.

Your quiet superiority and your subtle judgments frustrate me, when I would wax despotic and hold court over my own litany of improbable and likely damnable pursuits.

Your silence frustrates me when I would have you break it.

Your questions frustrate me when I would have you content with your imperfect knowledge, or when I am discontent with my own.

That you keep, and always have, an untouchable inner sanctum wherein you alone play supplicant to, and dictator over, every raw emotion and undampened impulse, frustrates me. You are forever yourself, one step removed from me, and what passes through the synaptic gap is diluted current, when what I want is the very highest voltage you’ve got. Flood me with direct reception. Be inseparate. Let me in.

That you step beyond the bounds of this private kingdom and become a pilgrim of your own purely unedited soul only when I myself have retreated impenetrably within mine frustrates me.

That only moments of great strife, or whisperings of great despair, can tempt you through your gates and into my own without prodding frustrates me. That I myself, apart from such calamity, am not inspiration enough to take you fully outside yourself frustrates me, but then, partial possession of your essence has always been more than enough to wholly captivate me.

That you refused for so long to take that which I would have given to you above all others frustrates me even still.

That you have often given freely to others that which you’ve so often withheld from me is more frustrating than I can say.

That you spurn and reject me and write me off in exactly those moments of my greatest earnestness frustrates me; your timing has always been impeccable. That I deserve such precision and keep coming back to be cut down by it frustrates me too; as does the fact that I hope I never learn.

That you think you walk the boundaries of Claudia’s memory unnoticed and alone frustrates me. You do not.

That you think your life is yours alone to end frustrates me. It is not. That you would take leave of this world and make of me an unacknowledged accomplice frustrates me. I am not.

That you tolerate me at all baffles and frustrates and infuriates me when I would martyr myself as the unredeemable devil.

The very fact of my love for you has infuriated me in all its unconscionable tenacity, when I’d have liked nothing better and needed nothing more desperately than to hate, curse, and revile you, to denounce you, and to forget you. But you’re cleaved to my soul with the strength of a titan, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it, and never was.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
